


A Leap of Faith

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Post Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 18:59:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3145058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Season 6 finale, just imagine Peter, Neal and Paris. That's all that needs to be said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Leap of Faith

     The visiting FBI agent had been granted access to the vast workroom housed on the upper floor of the Louvre. It was within these walls that authentication and restoration was performed on the colossal collection of art housed within the world-renowned museum. At present, there was only one occupant in the atelier. He was diligently bent over a delicate Renaissance screen that he was in the process of refurbishing to its former glory. The young man, with his mop of unruly brown hair and paint-stained fingers was so completely focused on his tedious ministrations that it took a few seconds for him to realize that he had a visitor in the studio. When he looked up, a small smile creased a handsome face dominated by opalescent blue eyes. There was no surprise in his wry gaze.

     “Well, it took you long enough,” he remarked with his sardonic grin still in place.

     It required a lot of determined concentration for the agent to get any words out. Finally, while still staring awkwardly at the man in front of him, he commented, “It has been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

     Then he seemed to find his equilibrium again and continued in a smug tone, “But we’ve known where Neal Caffrey has been for quite awhile. Or should I say that we have known where ‘Remy Broussard’ has been.”

     “Ah, still the ties that bind one to the ever-persistent FBI; how ironic and disheartening,” the young restorer noted forlornly.

     “Yeah, well, I suppose that law enforcement is just in my blood,” was the short, cryptic answer he received.

     The artist sighed deeply, and then took up the opening conversation once again after that little deflection. “Neal Caffrey doesn’t exist anymore; you get that, right? He died in Manhattan one fatal day and he can’t be resurrected.”

     “Yes, he did indeed ‘die’ in New York a long time ago,” the man with soft brown eyes agreed. “And he left a world of hurt behind that lasted for far too long.”

     “You know that was unavoidable, and you know the reason,” was the quick, defensive retort.

     The agent just looked sad for a moment rather than angry. “Sure, eventually I did, but that didn’t make it any easier to reconcile. Hurt is hurt, whatever the motive behind it!”

     The younger man sighed again. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I am sorry for all the havoc that was created, and the angst and the suffering. It was done with the best of intentions to protect loved ones from dire repercussions. You have to realize that.”

     With some bitterness in his voice, the visitor responded, “Yeah, I do, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was the one who eventually had to live with all the fallout!”

     Taking a deep breath, the agent then continued in a calmer voice, “Look, I didn’t come all this way to argue with you or to re-hash old hurts that happened in the past. We have to move beyond that.”

     The young artist looked down momentarily, collected his thoughts, and ventured in a soft voice. “Well, I suppose it would be best for us to leave the history behind and get to know who we are now. Let’s proceed with the premise that we’re finally meeting for the first time today.”

     “Okay, let’s go with that option so that we can get through this little reunion with some dignity intact,” acquiesced his counterpart. “To that end, let’s talk about your accomplishments. You now have a reputation as the preeminent restoration and authentication genius in the art world. And, to your credit, your own work is highly prized and rather famous. That’s quite an accomplishment for an artist who isn’t dead yet. Usually it takes one’s demise before the world truly appreciates their creations.”

     “Well, I guess it’s like you said. The talent is in the blood.” The modest young man reiterated the agent’s words to him.

     After a beat, he continued. “It seems as if your career at the Bureau, Agent Burke, has been on a meteoric arc as well. Let’s give credit where credit is due.”

     When the man opposite him gave him a quizzical look, he continued. “You know my life; surely you’re not surprised that I’ve kept up with yours?”

     “I wouldn’t have expected any less,” admitted the FBI agent. “Speaking of keeping up, we were never able to get a bead on Mozzie. He went completely off the grid. Does he keep in touch? Just out of idle curiosity, nothing more, I assure you. The Bureau never had a thing on him that would ever stick.”

     “Ah, yes, Mozzie,” the artist smiled fondly. “Being a dedicated oenophile, he has managed to live out his dream. He now owns a rather distinguished and quite profitable vineyard in Provence. He visits occasionally, bearing the gifts of his vines.”

     With that topic exhausted, a long silence stretched before Neal and Peter, with neither knowing just what to say next. Even though they had the best of intentions at heart, there had been so much water under the bridge. It was just hard to go on from here. What they could not ignore, though, was how aware they were of each other and the vast amount of shared knowledge. There had been so many memories revisited and examined over and over—some good and some not so good. It was as if some karmic bond connected them. Now that this day had finally come, neither was sure if they should just forge ahead and take the next step. Neither man knew for sure how it would all play out.

     Finally, it was the agent who broke the prolonged silence. “Well, I should be getting back to my wife at the hotel.”

     The artist raised his eyebrows incredulously.

     “Oh, don’t look so surprised. Of course I brought my wife as well,” the agent retorted. “It was easier to sell the idea to the Bureau that this was a family holiday to Paris—a longtime dream vacation for everyone.”

     His counterpart laughed out loud with obvious glee. “So, she’s a cover for your little plan—a front woman. It’s reassuring to realize that some things never change.”

     The agent just favored the younger man with a cynically raised eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s really Paris that she wants to see, not you. And since you brought up my wife, how about you? When are you finally going to settle down with some sweet young thing who’ll put up with your shenanigans?”

     “Haven’t found that paragon of patience yet, but hope springs eternal,” was said with a smile.

     After an awkward beat, the two men simply looked deep into each other’s eyes and nodded their tacit agreement to take it to the next level.

     “Tomorrow in Montmartre, 2 PM, at the little artist square behind the Basilica of the Sacre Coeur……” was agreed.

     “Once more into the breach……” was the flippant response.

     Maybe a more prophetic epithet would have been, “Let us commence with a _leap of_ _faith_ that it will all work out.”

 

**********

 

     The next afternoon was as perfect as one could expect in springtime Paris. The sun was shining and the sky was azure blue with the occasional puffy white cloud that floated leisurely behind the dome of the magnificent basilica, a world famous site on the hill overlooking the Right Bank in Montmartre. There were the riots of stripped awnings at the ever-present cafes on the edge of the verdant greenspace just off the cobblestones.

     Over the past century, the likes of Monet, Modigliani, Dali, Picasso and van Gogh had walked this space, set up their tripods, and created masterpieces. It was steeped in history and tradition, and it was magical. Today’s struggling young artists could be seen emulating those ghosts from the past. Every medium from pastels to vivid oils was being put to canvases turned just at the proper angle to catch the light.

     A well-dressed, debonair gentleman could be seen strolling casually through the maze of easels. He was quite handsome with an intriguing face and thick brown hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. Stylishly attired in a dark charcoal three-piece suit, he emanated the sophisticated, charismatic charm of a Cary Grant and the cosmopolitan swagger of an endearing Maurice Chevalier. He turned the heads of quite a few mademoiselles seated in the bistro sipping their little demitasse cups of French roast. Occasionally, he would linger behind a particular artist, put his hands in his pockets and rock back on his heels as he studied their efforts.

     Actually, painting was this man’s passion and had been for his entire life. When he was younger, he lacked the fortitude to create his own personal vision, and preferred to hone his skills mimicking the greatness of others. It was only in the last twenty-five years that his soul felt truly free, and he had allowed his genius to soar. He was now well regarded in the artist community, both as a painter and a patron, and, with his comfortable wealth, he was able to mentor and sponsor the occasional aspiring but struggling artist. That was the reason that he was here today. He was to meet a promising protégé for lunch so that they could discuss showing the young man’s work at a gallery later in the month.

     Across the cobblestone square, two other men meandered slowly through the throng of Parisians enjoying the sunlit afternoon. Both were tall and strikingly similar, although the age difference was appreciable, with the older man’s silver gray hair affording him an authoritative, yet graceful mien. He stood with an erectness that belied his years; his footsteps were sure and his perusal of his surroundings was intense. He studied the efforts of these young artists carefully and remembered long-ago paintings of ballerinas and art deco buildings. But that was from another time, another place.

     For so long, the older man had resisted the temptation to visit the “City of Lights.” He just could never bring himself to fracture the delicate façade built in the distant past. He comforted himself with the knowledge that all was right in that world, and got on with his own life. It didn’t do to dwell on what could not be changed. Yet here he was today, in this wondrous place, escorted by a companion who had insisted that, even though he was a lapsed Catholic, he really needed to visit the majestic Basilica of Sacre Coeur.

     Slowly, as if on a preordained path, these two men were closing the distance between them. All at once, a lilting laugh came from the suave gentleman who was conversing with a young woman creating caricatures of French politicians on her drawing tablet. The sound made the older man lift his head sharply in that direction and stare with laser-like intensity at the apparition across from him. He froze in place, not moving a muscle, but the younger man seemed to sense this penetrating scrutiny, and turned to survey his surroundings with a question in his blue eyes. Almost immediately, he felt the pull.

     For a long moment, the two men stared at each other in astonishment. Then it was as if time no longer existed, and they moved tentatively toward each other with slow, precise steps. Now mere inches apart, they studied each other’s faces, seeing honesty and longing laid bare. Almost as one, they moved to clasp each other in a firm embrace with a voracious hunger, and ultimately allowed their emotions to flow in hot tears that neither tried to hide. The patrons seated at the small tables in the courtyard smiled indulgently at the charming spectacle of two obviously old friends reuniting once more. It was Paris, after all, where miracles happened and wishes were granted to those who were worthy of Fate’s largess.

     Neal Burke felt rather than saw Peter Caffrey “Broussard” sidle up to him surreptitiously.

     “We did good, didn’t we?” the young man asked his cohort in crime.

     “Yeah, we did good,” the other son agreed.

     “I have just one question,” the artist asked quite seriously. “Would this be considered a con or a sting?”

_Fini_


End file.
